


the sparks filled with hope

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Soulmates AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(you are not alone)<br/>On his twelfth nameday, Willas awakes to the sight of a roaring direwolf imprinted on his wrist. 'He has both a roaring direwolf and a golden rose painted on his tourney shield when he is fourteen and understands what the look in his father's eyes means, wishing Sansa was old enough to see him joust, wishing she was old enough to attend so he could crown her his queen of love and beauty.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sparks filled with hope

When the grey direwolf of House Stark appears on the inside of his wrist on the morning of his twelfth nameday, Willas is more than slightly perplexed.

He has received his marking immensely later than expected – it is common for most in Westeros to receive it upon birth, or in the months that follow. His unblemished wrist has been a source of sadness for not only him, but for his family as well, as he is set to inherit the Reach and as such should have his very own soulmate to wed as those who came before him, including his father. As puzzled as he is by the late arrival of his marking (for he thought it would never arrive at all, and had resolved himself to live a life without true happiness) what confuses him even more is the shape it takes.

He awakes to a stinging sensation on his wrist, and looks down in confusion, eyes still bleary from sleep. He blinks slowly, steadily, and watches as a faint image appears on his skin, a swirl of colours and shapes.

When it finally settles against his skin, the stinging sensation all but disappears, his mark is not one he ever expected to appear. A roaring, proud direwolf is sharply imprinted on the skin of his wrist, a direwolf where he thought a cluster of grapes or a red sun pierced by a golden spear would rest – if a mark appeared at all, and he'd lost hope around his eighth nameday.

He knows little of House Stark, only what the septon has told him about the North and what the maids still whisper amongst themsleves about Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Sitting upright in bed, direwolf roaring on the inside of his wrist, Willas is entirely perplexed why the gods have decided to bond him with such a house, a house so far away from the Reach.

Such an occurrence, he knows from his studies, happens only very rarely.

His confusion only doubles when he happens upon his mother and proudly shows her the mark, a robe thrown hastily around his body as he dashes from his bed, grin on his face. After so many years of bare skin, he entirely expects her to grin with happiness and hug him tight, cautious of the swelling stomach that houses what his mother hopes shall be a long-awaited daughter after three sons. Her grin never appears, for when she looks upon the mark she furrows her brow, and walks away from his without uttering a single word, gait slowed slightly by her ever expanding stomach.

He stands and waits under the archway, certain she shall return. Minutes go by, his stomach grumbles and he shakes his head softly, making his way to the hall for breakfast. It is at the entrance to the great hall that his fingers move to cover the mark on his wrist, lest someone else see it and have the same reaction as his mother.

He has barely finished his plate of fruit, a piece of apple sour in his throat, when the maester walks over to him and beckons Willas to follow him to his study.

The news the maester shares with him is dreadful, and he thinks this might very well be the worst day of his life, nameday or not.

Told to take a seat, he is grateful for the support underneath him when he learns there are no female Starks, no one for him to marry. Lyanna Stark had perished in Dorne, this he knows, and the only Starks that remain are Winterfell's lord, his lady wife and their son and heir, as well as the lord's only living currently serving at the Wall, and thus never to sire any children. Whilst Winterfell's lord is certain to sire more children, there is no definite they shall be females, no definite they shall ever bear the mark of House Tyrell upon their wrists.

His twelfth nameday, and there is no one for Willas to marry. The gods had not seen fit to bless him with a mark at birth, and now that they have blessed him after so many years, it is with a mark of a house that is currently bereft of females. The gods have doomed him to unhappiness, and he feels utterly stupid that he had thought he could have been happy, even it was just for a moment.

He has read about this, in one of the lengthy texts housed at the Citadel. No matter how desirous and suited the match may be, men and women often live out their days without the person they were matched to, married to another for advancement or by arrangement. No true happiness can be derived from such a situation, and it seems this is to be the case for Willas.

He shall spend his life with a wife not born from the house best suited for him, and whilst he's sure he shall be content, he will never be truly happy. He resigned himself to this fate years previous, but now he shall live with the thought of what could have been forever in the back of his mind, a thought which had given him so much happiness this very morning.

His mother begins weeping as the maester finishes explaining this to Willas, who sits wide-eyed in front of them, the fingers of right hand gripping his left wrist tightly. He thinks for a moment that maybe if he grips it tight enough he shall be able to change the form of his mark, alter it in some way that shall lessen the sorrow of his mother. After so many years of waiting, why have the gods seen fit to curse him so?

Surely they could be kindly enough to alter it, he thinks, and places pressure upon the mark whenever he can.

Days go by and the mark does not change form. It stubbornly remains a roaring direwolf, a patch of grey upon his wrist, and Willas thinks perhaps he has been eternally doomed to unhappiness. As he set to inherit the Reach and all its responsibilities, he shall have to marry and have heirs, but if he cannot marry his soulmate he knows he shall never be truly happy.

\---

Over the next year he resigns himself to his fate, burrowing away into his books and spending more and more periods of time in Oldtown. The mark is covered up whenever he can manage it, by long sleeves or pieces of cloth wrapped tightly around his wrist, for looking at it brings him only sorrow. Any happiness in his life is derived from his books, and he often thinks it would be better to pass his title as heir to Garlan, to rid himself of any obligations, the expectations that he will marry and sire children.

His brother would be as a capable lord of the reach as Willas himself, and Garlan wouldn't be spending the majority of his time musing on what could have been, because Garlan would be happy, truly and completely happy. His brother had been born with a bright red apple imprinted on his wrist, whilst Willas' wrist still remained bare. A year later, news arrived from Cider Hall that a baby girl had just been born, a golden rose on her wrist. Garlan and Leonette had been betrothed since they were children, and Netty would be a wonderful Lady Tyrell.

With Garlan as Lord of the Reach, Willas would be free to bury himself away in Oldtown and surround himself with books and stories – stories that always had a happy ending, never the circumstances.

But it seems fate has other plans, and years later he is grateful of it; because no matter how wonderful, books could never compare to his lady wife.

\---

When Willas is thirteen, taller than ever before thanks to another growing spurt, he is summoned to the maester one afternoon, panting from his lengthy sparring session in the yard. His curls fall into his eyes, his face sweaty, but he drops the wooden sword and hurries out of the yard, eager to escape the watchful eye of his father. This isn't the first time his lord father has watched him practice, his face lined with something Willas cannot name, eyes sharp as his son manages to defeat opponent after opponent.

The news the maester has to share with him is delightful, and his heart swells with an emotion he has not felt since the morning of his twelfth nameday.

A girl has been born to Eddard and Catelyn Stark two moons past, an auburn-haired babe they have named Sansa. She is thirteen years younger then him, younger than Margie even, but she is a Stark, his long-awaited match, and his mother is grinning so widely with happiness he cannot help but return the smile. Her wrists are unblemished for now, but with his mother smiling so happily he does not dwell upon the fact, lips curling into a grin themselves. Fate would not tempt him so, he thinks, would not dare to be so cruel.

All of his fears, fears of a lifetime of unhappiness, of loneliness, of anguish, are finally dissuaded when two months later his mother informs him Lady Catelyn has found, no less than two days ago, a golden rose decorating her daughter's wrist.

He has both a roaring direwolf and a golden rose painted on his tourney shield when he is fourteen and understands what the look in his father's eyes means, wishing Sansa was old enough to see him joust, wishing she was old enough to attend so he could crown her his queen of love and beauty.

He thinks it is the painting of both symbols on his shield that ensures it is only his leg that is ruined when he falls from his horse, unaware of what has happened until he cannot move his leg, not at all, screaming in agony.

Years later, when she is deemed old enough to wed, he undoes Sansa's maiden cloak and covers her in Tyrell roses, he swears he has never been happier, can never be happier, mangled leg be damned.

Sansa proves him wrong when a year later she presents him with their first child, a sight that Willas cannot help but weep at, silently thanking the gods for the endless joy his wife, his _soulmate_ , has brought to his life. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written months ago, but I just polished it up today (and nearly cried at the thought of little Willas Tyrell left bereft of a soulmate and resigning himself to a life without true happines). I've missed writing Willas/Sansa so very much, so I hope you enjoy! Soulmates AU's are pretty much the best thing in this world. 
> 
> If you want to chat about the obviously meant-to-be pairing of Willas and Sansa, I'm on tumblr at: martinsllydia


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